Before the Holy Mountain

His Majesty the Emperor of the Empire was gaining the authority his father had left behind at an astonishing pace. The steady stream of victories from the south formed the steps by which his imperial authority rose.

Granted, the new war in the south was a collective effort by the Empire's nobles, but there was no denying that the highest place on the roll of honor belonged to His Majesty.

The Nant Kingdom.

The King nominally ruled everything in this land, yet none of the wars fought upon it had anything to do with the King of Nant.

A company of noble knights wearing imperial insignia stood among a field of corpses. Warm blood and steaming breaths announced that little time had passed. Before the battlefield could be cleared, the clamor of hoofbeats came from afar. Every knight looked up warily.

They raised their longswords, their blades covered in nicks and dents—not because their weapons were poorly made, but because their equally powerful enemies had wielded weapons of comparable quality.

They were alive, and they were nobles. The corpses on the ground were dead, and they too were nobles. In this battle, no blood had been shed for anything other than glory.

"Vero, take the left. Amir, take Cass to the right. Eric, you're with me."

A young man with a ruby bound to his forehead bent his knees slightly and held his longsword upright in both hands. Beside him, a bedraggled young man stared coldly ahead. Their positioning ensured that the approaching cavalry could not attack them from behind.

Fortunately, as the hoofbeats drew closer, they all relaxed. Those were the Empire's Highland Warhorses, and their riders carried imperial banners.

"Belain, thank goodness you're still alive."

The approaching knights put away their weapons as well, dismounted with smiles, and